


In the Rain

by sahdah



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Bad Days, F/M, Introspection, PWP, Slice of Life, rain storms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 06:55:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18441347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahdah/pseuds/sahdah
Summary: Soul's had a bad day. All he wants is to get home and make things right. One shot.





	In the Rain

Soul shuffles to the front door. It's been one of those shit fuck days that just needs to end.  

 

He hasn't been sleeping well, and this morning lost his temper with Maka.  Forgetting to put the dishes away shouldn't be life or death. But with her, it is.  _ Why? Why are relationships so... _

 

It's just, well he knows better. That’s why he’s so pissed at himself, he does his best to not mess up.  But, fuck, he's only human and sometimes he makes mistakes. They’ve been together long enough they shouldn’t keep having these dumb arguments.

 

Not only that, but the day compounded, snowballing into a complete shit fest. Matilda ended up in the shop because he picked up a nail heading home.  Death Dealers was closing by the time they limped into the lot. The cherry on top was after he caught the closest subway, he ended up being fined for some insignificant thing outside of his control. 

 

Seriously the day could've been better; by this point it was a miracle it hadn't started raining.

 

His key is turning in the lock as the sky lights up,  thunder booming overhead just as he shuts the door. 

 

“Soul?” Maka rounds the corner wiping her hands on her frilly apron, and it's the best thing he's seen all day. “What happened? Did you walk home? I've been trying to call you…”

 

He is a shit for causing that worried furrow on her soft face. His face probably looks uncool; he doesn't care because the fact she doesn't immediately back away gives him some courage he doesn't feel.  Walking to her, he wraps his arms around her and just lets himself express his feelings physically for a few seconds. “I'm sorry. I was an ass this morning.” He mumbles into her hair, breathing her in.

 

Strong, small arms return his hug. 

 

“Shitty day,  phone died-- just happy to be home ‘s all.”

 

The windows flash, then seconds later thunder shakes the panes while his meister holds him.

 

“I-- I didn't help things this morning.  I'm sorry too.” She props her chin on his chest looking up at him, hugging him tightly. “I was starting to worry.  I'm just glad you made it home safe,” she whispers, just as the power goes off.

 

“No, no, no,” she wails. Soul is left alone as she detaches herself, running to the kitchen, avoiding collisions as she knows the house in the dark like the back of her hand.

 

Soul takes a few steps and then sinks into the couch. In the darkness, the smell wafts to him and his stomach let's out a colossal growl.  

 

“Oh thank Death, it was finished cooking.” From the depths of the kitchen she shouts, “Could you get the candles?” 

 

He’s sitting and doesn't particularly want to move, so he doesn’t.  The storm is flashing outside and he feels content staring at it from his vantage point on the couch.

 

Maka returns with two steaming plates. “Soul?”

 

In the semi darkness he looks up at her.  “Look.” He doesn’t implore, but does will her to understand what he’s seeing. The window is illuminated by the lightning, throwing strange shadows across the open desert. Moments pass and then the thunder rumbles the panes.

 

Maka silently hands him his bowl of curry. Her green eyes are illuminated by the white blue light as she takes a bite of her own.  Soul’s face burns, storms have a wild beauty about them, but they don’t hold a candle to Maka.

 

The rain has started-- the sound of the wind over the desert is its own sort of music.  Soul faces the window sprawled over the couch, but he moves to make room for Maka so she can join him. He relishes in the feeling of her body tucked into his and they eat in companionable silence. 

 

After a while she hands him her empty bowl and he reaches over with his long arm placing it on top of his on the coffee table. He may be a dork as he stretches, acutely aware of how her body is pressed into his, so he can wrap his arms around her.  

 

The apartment is quiet, the only sound is the thunderstorm, but Soul is focused on a steady beat that compliments the sound of chaos.  It's the beating of his meister’s heart. 

 

In the stillness he feels the tendrils of her soul brushing against his and he opens his own to her, much like the desert flowers that will soak up the rain. And he breathes her in.

 

“Dork,” she whispers, a silent giggle shakes her body. 

 

Damn the link, but mostly his propensity for being such a squishy fuck. The fact that he’d die if anyone knew his meister inspired poetry. Basically it’s what his music is anyway, one long unending composition of feelings and poetry inspired by the woman in his arms.

 

“You know you like it,” he says; it’s a quiet whisper into her ear and her body shudders against his. 

 

“Do I?” Her face nuzzles closer to his, “yes, yes I do.”

 

The room feels much too tight like the atmosphere outside. Lightning reflects in her green eyes as she stares into his, making his heart do stupid things. Her soul feels like it’s dancing, a child unable to sit still, asking a simple question, one she knows the answer to. 

 

Her skin feels cool to his lips, light notes of jasmine and lotus mixing with the warmer notes of sandalwood and pine of his expensive shampoo-- his mouth splits into a grin pressed against her neck. 

 

Maka stills in his arms. “Please don’t be mad. I only borrowed a little…” She trails off, her hands fidgeting with frayed hem of one of his old sweatshirts. That’s when he realizes she’s also wearing his old boxers, his most embarrassing pair-- white bones over faded blue. His face is burning.

 

Why does she do this to him?! Taking deep breaths he tries to settle the erratic beating of his own heart, watching her smile to herself. He nips her neck. “I’m not mad.” 

 

He is mesmerized by the sharp intake of her breath as his teeth explore her soft skin. And while her breath might be erratic, her soul is persistent.  _ Please _ . 

 

It is impossible for him to deny his meister.

 

_ Body my house _ , his soul whispers. 

 

Maka shivers again as his lips move across her neck.  _ My horse my hound _ , if she keeps moving the way she is, he won’t make it past the first stanza.  _ What will I do, when you are fallen _ , he breathes slowly feeling her earlobe with the tip of his nose. 

 

_ Where will I sleep, _ his hands are intertwined with hers. His, ah, he may or may not have a steadily growing problem.   _ How will I ride,  _ her fingers are tracing the bones in his hands.  _ What will I hunt-- _

 

_ Kisshin!  _ She supplies, her soul infectious with her silent giggling. It’s her own little joke. Her body stills so he can continue. 

 

_ Where can I go _

_ without my mount _

_ all eager and quick  _

 

Not for the first time does his soul constrict, thinking of the battles that they’ve had. The times she’s been injured, or the times he’s sat next to her as she lay in a bed in the clinic.

 

_ How will I know _

_ in thicket ahead _

_ is danger or treasure _

_ when Body my good _

_ bright dog is dead _

 

All the inane trials of the morning are completely washed away. Knowing that only one thing really matters. His tongue traces her delicate collarbone, listening to her deep breaths, feeling how she presses their interlocked fingers tightly against her tummy.

 

_ How will it be _

_ to lie in the sky _

_ without roof or door _

_ and wind for an eye _

 

_ With cloud for a shift _

_ how will I hide? _

 

“Soul?” Maka twists in his arms. He watches as she stares at his mouth. It’s something that makes him fidget, so he runs his tongue ring around his lips-- a nervous habit. “Kiss me,” she whispers.

 

He needs no second invitation; her lips are soft, and they part slightly. Even if they weren’t resonating, they’ve been together for so long they know what the other wants-- needs. The rain keeps falling outside, her body is warm next to his and there’s no other place he’d rather be. 

 

Her twin tail tickles his face as he moves to her throat. It has always been a fascination. Something about feeling her pulse with his lips, grazing that particular soft spot with his sharp teeth does more to him than should be legal. 

 

Small strong hands run up and down his thighs, teasing. He can’t help the groan, “Maka.” It’s not a question, nor a reprimand, just her name on his lips. His hands grip the frayed hem of the sweatshirt and she leans back, her soul is impatient, and yet, something about the intensity of the storm makes him want to take his time. 

 

He works the material up slowly, focuses on the feeling of the rough skin of his hands on her soft yet battle scarred skin. His eyebrow quirks.

 

“What?” she frowns at him, angry kitten style.

 

His face splits into a pointed teeth grin as he pulls the garment over her head as he shakes his head. “Nothing,” he squeaks, when she presses herself against him. Soul can’t help but fiddle with the elastic of the shorts she’s wearing...he’ll wonder about her wearing only his clothes and nothing else, later. 

 

She pulls his shirt over his head; she is his meister. Her tongue is licking soft circles on his sensitive scar, wet and warm and goosebumps rise where she kisses. Not for the first time does it hit him, this is what she reduces him to, goosebumps and introspection. 

 

Death, they’ve lived together since they were fourteen. They’ve fought, bled, and survived together; sealed a kishin on the moon. There is no one else he could imagine doing those things with. 

 

And it becomes clear.

 

That is what his issue is, so he stops kissing her. But...if-- no, he trusts her. 

 

“Soul?” Maka shifts her weight to look at him. Even though they’re both more or less topless, he doesn’t feel naked. His soul has been bared to her since before she turned him into the last Death Scythe. 

 

He cups her face in his hands, kissing the freckles on her nose. Figures now’s as good a time as any to die. “Maka,” at just her name his throat threatens to close, he can’t be this big of a sap. An unbidden thought of Wes blubbering over the news clippings of him becoming Death Scythe pop into his mind-- death damnit, it runs in the Evans family. He is made of demon steel, so he takes a breath. “You, ah, fuck.” Is he fourteen again? The green of her eyes steadies him; he counts the gold flecks staring back at him.. “Look, I know after your parents split, how long it took before you could trust me, even after resonating souls for so long-- you didn’t immediately let me in.”

 

Shit--fuck, he hit a tender spot, but he-- that wasn’t his intent. He reaches out tentatively as her head dips down, stopping her gently with a hand to her chin and she doesn’t fight him. Soul brings up his other hand cupping her face, redirecting her gaze back to his. He takes a deep breath, then another. “I don’t need an answer today, but tell me you plan on making an honest man outta me someday.” 

 

His forehead is permanently glued to hers, he may have ended up choking that last part out as a whisper, not even sure she’s heard him. Maka is completely still in his arms, the wind is howling outside. Soul’s pretty sure he can hear the gears of the clock turning in the kitchen.  _ Maka,  _ his soul is fluttering around hers. 

 

“Soul.” Her eyes are blinking rapidly. 

 

It’s hard to get a read on her emotions let alone thoughts, her soul is buzzing on her side of the link, and then it stops, going still; a clear pond devoid of any ripples. “You’re serious.” 

 

Soul may be taller than his meister, but it feels like he is looking up at her. “You know I am.”

 

“You want me to ask you.” It’s a question posed in the form of a statement of fact. 

 

Maybe he went too far assuming she would shun all forms of traditional coupledom. He actually hadn’t thought that maybe she would want him to ask her. “I, ah, look I don’t care who does the asking. I’m yours, body and soul-”

 

“But Wes wants legitimate nieces and nephews.” Maka is looking out of the windows, and Soul is lost in left field. 

 

“Commawhat?” he mumbles, ungracefully.

 

The freckles that dust her cheeks are backlit by bright burning pink, and he can’t help the grin. They both crack up.   

 

She sniffs looking up at him, “Why now?” A smile is still ghosting on her lips, even though she’s asking quietly. 

 

He brings her body to his chest as he leans back into the couch, mirroring their position from earlier. Thinking of the day trying to put his feelings into a container he can deliver without it being picked apart by her super brain. 

 

“Today, on the subway, after I got a completely ridiculous ticket an old lady asked me what had me so bent up.” His fingers are sliding up and down her arm feeling the soft fuzz of her skin. “She broke me, saw right past the Evans patent  _ fuck off _ face.” 

 

“Soul!” He’s lucky no books are in range. 

 

“I know, I know,” he says placatingly. “I was pissed. Anyway, she goes on and psycho analyzes me. She told me that she was on her way home from visiting her husband, it was his birthday. Said she missed everything about him, even the fights.”

 

Maka is quiet, her fingers keep tracing where Ragnarok sliced him. He could have lost it all then, and he was given a second chance-- still made plenty of mistakes, but had life and opportunity to make those. 

 

“They’d been married over forty years. They laughed together, cried together, said things out of anger and frustration to one another, said I love you many times. She explained that you never stop having arguments, that isn’t possible. Things happen. But you get better at communication. You cannot control another person’s feelings, nor how they react to things. She stressed that acknowledging when we hurt someone else isn’t weakness, it’s courage. That it takes courage to say you’re sorry.”

 

The occasional burst of lightning lights up the room, waiting on him.

 

“I’m sorry I was an ass this morning.” His mind is tied up in trying to pinpoint what it was that really upset him, and he’s coming up empty. “I don’t have the answers to everything like you do, Maka. I make ridiculous mistakes and sometimes unwise choices. All I know is that I want none of this if it isn’t with you. I’d rather fight with you every day than live one non confrontational day without you.”

 

There’s a thing that happens with Maka. Every now and again she is rendered completely speechless, and while Soul will never have the soul perception his meister does, his soul can read hers more clearly than anything else in the world. Bright white engulfs him-- them both. 

 

“I love you too, Soul,” Maka whispers in his ear, sending shivers across his body, and his arms prickle with goosebumps. Any further words are unnecessary. 

 

The storm is ending. 

 

His lips find hers as their souls resonate. She has helped him unlearn so much of the toxic bullshit his family had made him assume was normal.

 

He kisses away the salt trails on her face, unaware that he had made her cry. Losing himself in her gaze, only gasping a little in surprise when she tugs on his pants to free him. As a derpy fourteen year old he thought sex was probably interesting but still a little gross. Now, twenty-four year old Soul understands that he made a much deeper covenant at fourteen when he said he was prepared to die for his meister. Because he now understands that he wouldn't do that for just anyone.

 

Ignorance was waiting for all those “hormones” to hit, but they never did. Enlightenment was the realization that he couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when he fell for his meister. They both fought against the cliche, lost years before they realized the world could go fuck itself. Because after Ragnarok, Soul wasn’t the same. But now really isn't the time to ponder this. 

 

It’s cold when she stands up, her eyes hold him to her even as she moves her hips to shuck off his, totally (un)cool,  bone boxers. Maka grips his knees and slides to the ground until she's sitting with her long legs tucked beneath her, between his legs. He watches her slide her hands up his thighs and he can’t look anywhere else, not when she’s looking at him like that. He knows what’s coming and it makes him strain against her grip. This only serves to make her grin wider, but unlike that one time she nearly lost control to the black blood, there is nothing mad or reckless about her. And he nearly dies as her warm tongue tastes him from base to top, planting a chaste kiss on his tip. 

 

Thank fuck for birth control he thinks briefly as his senses are assaulted. She’s the one who said she hated condoms too much; he didn’t mind them. She also wouldn’t let him get snipped; he  _ had _ offered. His mind goes blinding white as she engulfs him, his fingers carefully undo her hair, because all he wants to do is run his fingers through the golden strands-- and she has other plans because she stands up and is facing away from him and he’s still sitting on the couch like the fool she reduces him to.

 

This is short lived because she has him gripped again. He almost fantasizes about her white gloves but keeps a lid on it because holy death she’s lowering herself and taking him in. Maka holds his hands to her hips and he thumbs the orange outline of his soul, tattooed just over her right hip. 

 

He feels her tightening and relaxing around him and he’s sure he’s going to embarrass himself if he doesn’t focus. Her body is pressed enticingly against his, his nose traces the line of her neck, his tongue finds her pulse and her gasp captures his attention. 

 

Being brought up to play all manner of classical instruments has its perks. He slides their intertwined left hands up her side and allows her to guide their right hands to the apex of her thighs. It’s his turn to gasp when she rolls her hips squeezing him tightly inside, so he nips her neck. 

 

Death he loves her. 

 

Loves the sounds she’s making, how her heart feels pressed against his, and the feeling of her trembling beneath his fingers-- she’s getting closer but she’s still too far away from him. Soul grips her hips tightly, hating himself for lifting her off of him, thrusting them both into a standing position. The delicate skin of her neck is already bright red from his mouth and teeth. Kissing  the tender spot softly Soul turns her to face him. 

 

Her eyes are bright hazy pools of green, her chest is slightly heaving, “Soul?” He takes her mouth in his and runs his tongue ring over her lips, lowering her to the couch gently. Grinning when she nips his lower lip. Her mouth is swollen and it fascinates him. He tastes her on his middle finger and watches her eyes following his finger out of his mouth and down to her folds. And he chokes out an involuntary, ah, when her hand seizes him, maneuvering his shaft as only a scythe master can. 

 

She’s fighting dirty so he can too. His mouth closes on the soft pale skin of her breasts as she shudders around his knuckles. This isn’t about teasing though, her soul is nearly threatening to Maka Chop (™) him if she doesn’t get what she wants soon. What an impatient meister.

 

The living room window flashes like a strobe light effect on the baseline drop of a dubstep remix followed by window shaking thunder. 

 

If the world fell apart in this moment Soul would only care about the woman, soul bared, before him. He kisses her as she pulls him in with strong legs thrusting her hips deep into his. Instead of him taking her breath away she gut punches him and he barely has the wherewithal to catch his bodyweight on his elbows framing her face and her smug cocky grin. “You little shit,” he chides her, here he is trying to be all romantic and she’s wiping the board with him. Read: Do not pass Go! Do not collect $200, she’s going to be the death of him. 

 

He can’t deny her anything. He’s trying to be hurt and failing because her hands are brushing his unruly white hair out of his face, her lips are planting kissing wherever they can reach, and  _ fuuuck _ her hips have a mind of their own, scratch that-- rhythm of their own. 

 

It’s not her rhythm or his, it’s their music-- battle instincts, soul resonance, and unconditional trust. He’s the one who comes undone looking into her eyes, she takes him where she needs him to go and they go together. 

 

In the end, he wraps his long frame around hers, there’s no other place he would rather be. Well...yes possibly his/their bed, but it feels like there are lead weights on his eyes. He, isn’t going to make it. Lightning fades behind his eyelids as he tucks Maka more securely to his side, his face is buried in her neck. He presses one last kiss to her pulsing throat as his soul whispers,  _ you are my love. _

 

The last thing he hears is, “I love you too, Soul.”

 

 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to start moving some of the work that I've only posted on ff.net to here. I'd be remiss if I didn't thank the lovely Ahshe'sgone for giving me the idea. And thanks again to the sweet Professor Maka for the beta work.


End file.
